In my late teens and early 20s I worked at a huge restaurant chain, the one where you had to wear the ridiculous hats?. And suspenders? Yeah. It was a new location and we were hella busy all the time. We were all young and dewy, anxious for easy money and flirting with co-workers.

Those were the good ol' days, most definitely. The days that I could work 14 hours, get wasted, then do it all over again. Turning tables and going home with a bra full of numbers, making money hand over fist. Taking trips on a whim - Chicago, California, Italy - every month. People threw money at me because I was sweet and I listened. They found me "quirky" and "outgoing." I was a cartoon, everything I said seemed clever.

The money flowed and we drove beaters and lived with our parents, so we barely knew what "bills" were. Every night was Saturday night and we were all friends, at least once the shift ended and it was time to drink. We had no place to be, really. I mean, maybe a few classes, whatever. But, for a few hours between nightfall and that Ohio sunrise, anything could happen. Purses full of 20s, hot bartenders everywhere - what more could anyone want?

And the freedom. While you were chained to a desk, I was watching Dr. Phil, or getting my nails done, or whiling away an afternoon in a mostly empty coffee shop with my laptop. Sleeping and working and shopping as much as you want - how sexy is that?

Still, you pay a price.

I was always the kid juggling school and jobs, but over time my mom became increasingly less cool with it. "It's just not respectable, Jara." If I had a nickel... I mean, you'd think I was breaking legs for the mob. I'm not lap dancing or selling meth, so you'd think I wouldn't have to sit through these interventions. Jealous, you all are! I have more free time than most kindergarten students, my bills are paid and my jeans cost $200. Leave me alone.

But I knew she had a point, long before I was ready to admit it. There's always that little grimace when you tell someone that you're a bartender, "and that's it." People assume you're just flighty, still trying to find yourself, or maybe just really unmotivated. Too many people, not just moms, don't believe it's an honest, adult way to make a living.

Part of me despises that attitude. If you've never turned tables, then you can never understand the customer service and sales training it is. The food/drink service industry is all about problem-solving, taking responsibility and making everyone happy.

But after several years I did start to worry about getting stuck. I didn't want to be 35 with two kids hanging on my arm, trying to grind out the rent on my feet 12 hours a day. I didn't want to become the old broad behind the bar with the overdone hair and faded jeans and Disney character earrings, smoking Benson & Hedges and slowly turning my face to leather. I don't like admitting this; it feels like agreeing with those who look down on service-industry types. But I needed something else.

Now that I've fallen into a "career," things are different. I still bartend twice a week, sometimes only getting two hours of sleep before I start up again. But the money's good and it fills the gaps between my bills and my salary. And my work ethic has been forged in the fires of a family bar that literally doesn't have anyone else; if you don't show up, the place doesn't open. (I've had this office/writing gig for six months now, and the whole concept of paid time off still blows my mind.)

I am no longer a Night Stalker. Bedtime is usually 9:30, at the latest. Because waking up early doesn't suck. Because it's fun to wake up extra early to exercise to prevent desk-ass. I've been seduced by steady paychecks and benefits. But I've also tired of seeking vindication in the snobby "real world." Yeah, I tend bar on weekends - so what? And yeah, sometimes I do wish I could catch Jerry Springer, or roam vintage shops for T-shirts (to sell on eBay, another of my side hustles). And I remember the satisfaction of silencing my mom when, during one of her "get a real job" rants, I told her how much I made in a week. That was cool.

So now I live in both worlds, and I like it. And maybe this Thanksgiving, no one in my family will look at me like I'm giving hand-jobs under bridges for a dollar.